


Rule of Threes

by howdyspacebuddy (eigengrau)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/F/M, everyone is kind of a sweet dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28244151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/howdyspacebuddy
Summary: The Inquisitor and Blackwall invite Josephine into their bed.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet, Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Blackwall/Lavellan (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Josephine Montilyet
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Rule of Threes

The Inquisitor is lying next to Blackwall in bed, the two of them catching a much-needed rest after a day of scouting, when she decides to quiz him on vocabulary.

“You know our word for your people? Humans.”

“ _ Shem _ ,” Blackwall recites. He remembers an elven serving girl spinning around, hissing the word at him after he had slapped her behind in full view of the entire dining hall, the other recruits roaring with laughter as she fled the room. She’d spat it with such venom, he’d assumed it was a swear until someone had corrected him years later.  _ Maker, he’d been an ass. _

The corner of Lavellen’s mouth quirks upwards. “Your pronunciation is terrible,” she chides playfully, “But yes. It means ‘quick’ or ‘swift.’ I’ve always thought it was odd, that we call you that, when compared to elves so many humans are just… bigger.” She shrugs. “You don’t see many elves in plate mail, lugging around broadaxes.”

“Surely there must be  _ some _ fat elves.” 

Lavellan raises her eyebrows. “Well, yes. Bothan, one of the woodworkers from my tribe, was… ” she trails off, puffing out her cheeks to demonstrate. A wicked smile crosses her face as Blackwall tries and fails to hide a snort of laughter. “He tried to ride a Halla once and nearly broke the poor thing’s leg. He was so round and short we used to joke that he was part dwarf.”

“I can’t imagine he liked that.”

“Hated it.” She shakes her head. “Children can be cruel. Most of us grew out of that by the time we were getting our  _ vallaslin _ , of course.” She taps her cheekbone, where the ink curls over her skin. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

“Oh?”

She ghosts her fingertips down his sternum, through the coarse black hair on his chest and down to his stomach. He squirms and shivers, but also feels his cock stir in his trousers at the soft touch of her small hands. She brackets her palms on either side of his ribs. “Look at yourself, Thom. You’re built like an oak tree. And all muscle-”

He twitches as she strokes over the slight belly he hasn’t been able to shake since he hit 40. “Not  _ all _ muscle.” He grabs her by the wrist, gently pulling her hand away. “That  _ tickles _ .”

Lavellan drops her gaze to where he’s holding her, then grins up at him mischievously. “Case in point. Look at that, you could wrap your hand around my wrist twice over.”

It’s true - her frame, thin and elven-lithe, is dwarfed by the broadness of his shoulders, the width of his palms. He rubs the calloused pad of his thumb over the bump of her wrist bone. “There are lots of parts of you I could hold in one hand.”

Her eyes glint in the light from the fireplace, and she lets him keep his grip on her arm as she lifts one leg and slides onto his lap, straddling him with her knees on either side of his hips, sinking into the mattress. “Show me,” she prods.

It’s pure schoolboy instinct when Blackwall reaches out and immediately cups her breasts in his palms. He’s instantly embarrassed by the reflex, but it’s softened as she bursts out laughing, the sound echoing off the stone walls of her room. She doesn’t do it often enough, and it makes his chest feel tight, full. His affection for her makes him feel like he could burst. He brushes his thumb over the peak of her nipple, hardening under the linen tunic, and her laugh turns into a low hum of pleasure. 

“Anything else?” She asks, her already low voice going husky. 

His hands drop to her hips. “These trousers look like they fit quite well,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “Requires further examination, though.”

His grip on her hipbones tightens, and he’s able to lift her slightly. Her muscular thighs tense, visible under the thin fabric, as she raises one eyebrow at him. “Examination?”

He keeps her gaze as he lowers her, guiding her to circle her hips on top of him. Her eyes widen and she gasps in surprise as he grinds her against his cock, hard through the layers of their clothing. She moans, her own hands going to his shoulders. For all her strength - and Maker, she is strong, pure muscle and sinew under her smooth skin, her body well-trained from running around all of Thedas and back and Andraste knows how many hours of combat - she is still  _ small _ , and he is  _ big _ . And the revelation that she’s as turned on by that as he is…

“You like me manhandling you?” He growls. It may as well be a rhetorical question but she nods, biting her lip.

Lavellan yelps as he suddenly flips them over, pinning her to the mattress underneath him. She surges up to try to kiss him, but in one swift movement he grabs both of her wrists in one hand and holds them above her head. She groans and cants her hips up to meet his. “ _ Fenedhis _ !”

“Language, my lady.” Blackwall shifts his weight, boxing her in between his knees. His free hand goes to the buttons of her tunic, popping them open one by one. Her breath quickens as he makes short work of the fastenings, pulling the fabric aside.

It’s Blackwall’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “No breastband today?” He asks in a casual voice, as if he’s inquiring about the weather and not sitting astride her as he strips her bare. 

She huffs out a laugh. “No missions or outings today. Just sitting in Josephine’s office going over missives from Orlesian nobles - no need for it.” 

Blackwall thinks on that for a moment as he starts working on the ties of her leggings. “I wonder if Josephine appreciated the view,” he ponders.

“What view?” she snorts, and Blackwall rolls his eyes. Lavellan’s self-deprecating jokes about her breasts are unnecessary - small, pert, and peaked with juicy dark nipples, they’re as adorable as the rest of her. 

But despite her quip, Lavellan seems to be rolling the comment around in her head. “You think she’s looking?” 

He’s not sure if he thinks that. He certainly likes the idea that she could be, but far be it for him to say anything of the like. This teasing is probably already a step too far. He shrugs, letting the subject rest and turning his attention back to her pants-

“I’d like it,” Lavellan blurts out. Blackwall freezes. Lavellan does too, then lets out a forced cough. “I mean. Uh. If she was… um.” She blushes.

“Oh,” is all he can think of to say.

“What I meant was- you’re the only one for me, I mean, obviously, and- ” she trips over the words as they tumble out of her mouth, “-I would never- ”

“That wasn’t what- ”

“Damn it- ”

“My lady.” He lets go of her hands. “I know you wouldn’t. That’s not…” he clears his throat. “That wasn’t where my thoughts went.”

She relaxes, her tense body going slack under him. “Okay,” she says, nervously. Blackwall sits back on his haunches and she shifts to sit up on her elbows. “That’s not… you don’t think that’s weird.”

He shakes his head vehemently. God knows he wouldn’t judge her for such preferences in the first place, but, with Josephine, of all people.  _ Maker _ . Lavellan’s visible anxiety makes his lust flag, but the thought of her and Josephine  _ together _ brings him back to full mast.

“She’s lovely,” he stammers. “You’re both lovely.”

Lavellan cocks her head, and finally breaks out in a tentative smile. “So that would be something you’d be interested in watching?” She teases.

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her deeply. She presses her body against his and moans as he licks into her pink mouth, tasting her, so soft. When they break apart, she looks up at him through hooded, hopeful eyes. “Yes,” he says, breathless, “I’d be interested.”

Lavellan strips her shirt off the rest of the way and starts fumbling with his breeches. “Get in me now,” she growls. 

“My lady,” he acknowledges, and yanks off her leggings the rest of the way. 

* * *

Josephine is squinting at the chicken-scratch handwriting of an Orlesian dignitary, the letters swimming in the flickering candlelight of her office, when she hears the door to her office open and the soft click of heels on the stone floor. She glares at the page, ready to shoo away whatever messenger or aide has come to give her more to worry about.

“If it’s another letter from the Viscount de Jerais, I swear I am going to have Leliana train a raven to- ” 

She looks up and catches sight of the Inquisitor, a small smile on her face, leaning against the bookshelf. Josephine claps her hands over her mouth.

“Inquisitor!” She pushes her chair back from the desk. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

Lavellan waves her hand dismissively and crosses the room. “I’ve read the Viscount’s complaints, I’d help train the raven.” She glances down at the papers strewn out in front of Josephine, at the nearly empty ink pot next to her quill. “Long day?”

“You have no idea.” Josephine sighs. “Bandits on trade routes in Crestwood, a dispute over a Bloodstone vein in the Emprise- ” she shakes her head. “I shouldn’t complain. It’s better than demons.”

“No less tiring though, I imagine.” Lavellan smiles, and Josephine can’t help but smile back, despite her stress. The Inquisitor cocks her head. “Have you eaten yet tonight?”

She shrugs as she rolls up a missive, dripping a spot of wax on the edge, pressing down with the Inquisition’s gold seal and trying to look nonchalant. “I had lunch.”

“Josie.”

“I’m quite fine, really.” Her stomach chooses that moment to growl, betraying her.

Lavellan rolls her eyes and reaches across the desk, taking Josephine by the hands and guiding her out of her chair. “Come on, there’s stew at the Rest.”

“But, I have to finish- ”

“It can wait ‘til morning. Or later tonight, if you insist on returning to work.” Lavellan steers her out of the office, ignoring her protestations. Josephine is loathe to admit it, but as the heavy door closes behind them, she can feel a weight being lifted off her shoulders.

The tavern is crowded, and Josephine belatedly realizes that it’s dinner time. That would explain the hunger, and the Inquisitor’s insistence she take a break. She tends to lose track of time when she’s this deep into work, her aides bringing her meals to the office, and she barely looks up from whatever letter she’s writing or book that she’s balancing to pay attention to what she’s putting in her mouth. The smell of rich broth and cooking meat fills her nose as Lavellan drags her to a table, and she’s a little embarrassed as her stomach, again, makes her hunger loudly known.

“And exactly how long ago was lunch?” Lavellan asks, raising one eyebrow. Josephine averts her eyes as she flops onto the bench. “And was it just a piece of toast? Because a piece of toast doesn’t count as a whole meal.”

“It was two pieces,” she grumbles. 

Sitting across from the table, Lavellan gestures to someone behind her. Josephine turns to see Blackwall approaching from the bar, balancing three wooden bowls in his hands. He nods to her, deferential, and she nods back as he places the bowls on the table, setting them in front of her and the Inquisitor. Lavellan smiles up at him, broad and unguarded, and his shoulder bumps hers affectionately as he slides onto the bench beside her. The two of them make a handsome couple, well-matched in looks as well as temperament. Despite the contrast between them - Lavellan small and spry, a spitfire and a born leader (despite her insistence to the contrary), and Blackwall all blunt edges and loyalty and carefully chosen words - Josie knows them both well enough to see how they complement each other. Blackwall’s stoicism hides a dry wit, and Lavellan’s confidence covers for deep anxieties. They are more alike than they seem. 

She catches a stronger whiff of the fragrant steam, seasoned with what smells like familiar spices, and is hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia.

“Thank you,” she says to Blackwall, accepting the spoon he offers her. “Is that an Antivan recipe?” She asks. Lavellan shrugs. 

“Not sure, but Bull keeps going back for seconds.”

“I had to fight him for these,” Blackwall says. “He nearly took my head off.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.” Josephine takes a spoonful of stew and feels her eyes drift closed almost involuntarily as it hits her tongue. “Maker! There’s Treviso wine in that, I’d know the taste anywhere!”

With her eyes closed, she doesn’t see the look that passes between Blackwall and Lavellan. “So that  _ is _ Antivan?” The Inquisitor asks innocently.

“Absolutely.” Josephine would never slurp her food - she’s not a barbarian - but if she spoons the stew into her mouth a little faster than traditional etiquette would dictate, no one would dare point it out. “My family’s cook used to make this when we visited the coast during the winter season.” She shakes her head in wonder. “I have no idea how they got the ingredients to Skyhold. I would have known if a shipment was coming in!”

“Maybe one of the requisition officers found some on a scouting mission,” Blackwall suggests. 

“However they did it,” Josephine says between mouthfuls, “I will fight Bull  _ myself _ for another bowl.”

The stew disappears quickly, but Lavellan convinces Josephine to stick around in the tavern for a bit longer. The Chargers have returned only this morning from a job protecting a caravan in the Hinterlands, and Bull insists on buying everyone drinks. At some point a pack of cards makes an appearance, produced almost out of thin air by the Inquisitor, and though Josie has letters to write and obligations nagging in the back of her mind, she’s never been able to resist a game of Wicked Grace. 

“Matching Serpents and Songs!” She proclaims, triumphantly fanning her hand across the tabletop. The other players groan, and Lavellan buries her head in her hands, stifling a laugh.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall says, chagrined, as he displays his mismatched pairs of Knights and Daggers. “That’s three rounds in a row.”

“If I didn’t know you were such a lady,” Bull grins, “I’d say you were keeping extra suits up those puffy sleeves.”

“Please,” she scoffs as she rakes in her winnings, “I would never. The sleeves are such an obvious hiding place.”

Lavellan shuffles the deck with her slender elven fingers, the cards flicking against each other as she mixes them up. “One more round?” She asks. 

“I’m out,” says Krem, with a wave of his hand. “Whether it’s cheating or just Antivan luck, I’m no match for it.” The other Chargers grumble in agreement, and Josephine laughs as they retreat to the bar. 

“You’ve broken my guys. I’m impressed.” Bull chuckles.

She shrugs coyly. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Lavellan hands her the cards, their fingertips brushing. A little tipsy on winning (and ale), Josephine feels the bloom of warmth in the pit of her stomach as the Inquisitor grins at her crookedly. “Come on, Josie. One more. I’ve got to at least pretend I can win one game.”

“One more,” she agrees. “But then I  _ have _ to get back to work.” She turns to Bull. “Shall I deal you in?”

Bull glances between them, his eye lingering on Blackwall and Lavellan for just a moment too long, and he shakes his head. “Nah, you three keep playing. It’s been a long day, I should probably get this last round and then hit the hay.” He claps a hand on Lavellan’s back, jolting the elf forward encouragingly. “Have fun, Boss,” he says, and then winks - or maybe blinks? - at the Inquisitor. Lavellan lets out a forced sounding cough, and Josephine could almost swear she sees Blackwall blushing under his beard. 

They end up playing three more rounds, and somehow, Josephine actually manages to lose one of them. It’s not to Lavellan - who for all her skill at guile that she’s displayed in her dealings with the Orlesian court is doing miserably - but to Blackwall, who spreads out a perfect hand of Angels, Knights, and Songs. 

“Drat,” Josie says, and Blackwall grins. For someone who spends so much of the time wearing a serious expression, it’s a pleasant surprise, and she tries to push the thought of how  _ nice _ he looks with a smile on his face out of her mind.

“Entirely blind luck,” he says, shrugging magnanimously.

“You are too modest,” Josephine smiles as she watches him hand the cards back to Lavellan. They have all had enough ale to loosen up, the Inquisitor leaning against her lover’s side, and on the other side of the table, Josie feels like she’s intruding on a personal moment. The two of them don’t openly show affection often, for which her diplomatic side is eternally grateful (Their relationship is scandalous enough already) but the side of her that wants her friends to be happy, is disappointed by. She’s borrowed some of Varric’s steamier books - “The trashier ones,” he’d say with a grimace, if asked - from Cassandra, and she’ll admit, if only to herself, that her romantic side is also disappointed. But they keep that private, and the last thing that Josephine needs is to make things awkward by overstaying her welcome.

It also, she loathes to admit, makes her feel a pang of loneliness. 

She stands from the table. “I should be going,” she says. “I’ve left it late enough as it is, I’m afraid.”

“Oh no,” Lavellan says, straightening up. “I hope we haven’t distracted you too much.”

Josephine waves her off. “No, you were right to talk me into coming. There wasn’t anything that couldn’t be put off until tomorrow, and this was much more fun than falling asleep at my desk and waking up with ink smeared on my face.”

“We should probably head out as well,” Blackwall says, and they follow her out of the Herald’s Rest. 

The sound of Maryden’s lute and the chatter of late-night drinkers dies down as they make their way up the stone steps to the keep. A warm breeze gusts through the courtyard, the lingering summer heat keeping the elevated stronghold comfortable, and Josephine closes her eyes before they cross the threshold into the great hall, savoring the feeling. Soon enough it will be winter, and Skyhold will be dusted with snow, and the fires will all be blazing. She’ll hold onto this memory of the smell of crystal grace on the wind for those long, cold months.

When she opens her eyes, it takes her a second to make out the shapes of Lavellan and Blackwall ahead of her. Backlit by the hall’s torches, it’s hard to see them in the darkness, but when she does, her breath catches in her throat. Lavellan has Blackwall pushed against the wall, hands planted on his broad chest. They’re kissing, open-mouthed, and Lavellan  _ groans _ as Blackwall pulls her against him.

Josephine is frozen, startled by the sudden display of affection, the intimacy of it all. And she’s transfixed - watching the two of them move together,  _ touching _ . Her stomach twists. How long has it been since she’s been with someone? 

They break apart and oh, Andraste, please open a hole in the ground to swallow her, they turn and look right at her. She feels a blush crawl up her chest and face, hot and shameful. The Inquisitor is going to think that she’s a Peeping Tom. Or that she’s peeping  _ at _ Thom - though honestly, she’s equally as taken with Lavellan, her pink lips bitten red and shining, her  _ vallaslin _ curving over her flushed cheeks. 

Oh, dear.

Blackwall clears his throat, and it breaks the silence. Josephine spins around, not sure where she’s going or what she’s doing.

“I am so sorry - ” she starts, fluttering her hands helplessly, but Lavellan’s soft voice interrupts her.

“Josie,” she asks, sounding like she’s picking her words very carefully, “would you like to join us in my room?”

Josephine turns and blinks. “Your room?” She says, feeling a bit lightheaded.

Lavellan nods. “Only if you want to,” Blackwall adds gently. 

She looks around the great hall. It’s utterly empty, just the three of them and the crackling of the torches - it must be even later than she’d thought - and before she even really thinks about it, her feet are carrying her after them as they retreat towards the stairs.

Blackwall closes the door behind them as they enter the Inquisitor’s loft, and Josephine takes a moment to marvel at the way the moon streams in through the window. The fire is already lit, probably stoked by one of the attendants, and the gold and silver light mingles and paints the room.

Now that they’re upstairs, Lavellan’s boldness seems to have worn off, and she awkwardly leans against her dresser, rummaging through one of the drawers. “One second,” she says, “I know I had it in here… “

Standing in the middle of the room, Josephine catches Blackwall’s gaze. He looks just as unsure of what to do as she does, hanging back by the door, still, and as their eyes meet, he huffs out a small laugh. An embarrassed smile crosses her face, and she giggles as well, the absurd awkwardness of the situation. 

“I’m not reading this wrong, am I?” She asks.

He shakes his head and steps closer, closing the distance between them, and she can feel the heat radiating from his body as he stands next to her. “I’ve got to admit, Lady Montilyet,” he says under his breath, “I’m not entirely sure how to proceed, here.”

Relief washes over Josephine. “Really,” she says lightly, attempting a joke, “and here I was thinking you and the Inquisitor have been secretly bedding half the keep.”

Blackwall blushes - actually blushes! - under his beard. “Definitely not.” He shakes his head. “This is a first for all of us. Uh- ” he catches himself, “Unless, of course… I wouldn’t want to assume- ”

“You assume correctly,” Josephine says firmly, and Maker’s breath, is she really discussing her sexual history with  _ him _ ? The thought of Blackwall, thinking about her, in  _ that  _ way… she’s getting a little lightheaded from it all. It seems like he’s only had eyes for the Inquisitor since he first arrived from the Hinterlands, clearly smitten with her from minute one, but her mind replays a handful of moments now - times when she’d caught him watching her from the corner of his eye, or glancing at her from across the courtyard.  _ Huh _ . And she’s seeing all of the Inquisitor's “friendly” flirting over the war table in a decidedly new light.

“A-ha!” Lavellan finally exclaims, and hefts something out from the drawer with a heavy clink of glass. She turns around, revealing a dusty green bottle cradled in her hands. 

Josephine takes it from her and examines the label. It’s another bottle of Treviso - the same as in the stew, if she’s identifying it correctly - and a  _ very _ good vintage. “ _ You _ ordered the wine from Antiva,” she accuses with a smile, pointing the bottle at Lavellan. Lavellan shrugs.

“I thought you could use a surprise.”

“At least one, apparently,” Josephine says dryly. She glances around. “Do you have a knife, or… ?”

Blackwall produces one, seemingly out of thin air but probably from the small leather sheath on his belt. She hasn’t got much of a head for these things, but she thinks it’s the same one she’s seen him carving with, sculpting small figures of animals and men out of ash and walnut. With careful hands, he uncorks the bottle and gives it back to her.

Without preamble, she takes a swig from the bottle. When she lowers it from her mouth, both Lavellan and Blackwall are staring at her with eyebrows raised. “What?” she asks. “We are somewhat past formalities, I think?”

Lavellan is silent for a moment, then bursts into giggles. Josephine dissolves into laughter a moment later, and Blackwall grins at the two of them. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” Lavellan admits, collapsing to sit on the grand Orlesian bed. 

“Oh?” Josephine sits next to her and passes her the bottle. The Inquisitor drinks deep.

“Hadn’t really planned this out past seeing if you were interested, to be honest.” Blackwall, still standing, shrugs.

Josephine points. “See? This is why the Inquisition needs me. Forethought!”

Lavellan chuckles. “So should we talk this out? You tell us what you want?”

She thinks about it for a second. Negotiation is what she does best, talking and sifting through options and solutions for hours, talking circles around herself and everyone else. But maybe that’s not the best approach here; sitting so close she can smell the clean, astringent soap that Lavellan uses, the elfroot oil she dabs on her pulse points. Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s just animal instinct, but Josephine doesn’t feel like talking.

So she leans forward, closes her eyes, and kisses her. 

Lavellan’s lips are soft and dry, a little chapped, and she lets out a startled, “Mmph!” before her hands relax onto Josephine’s shoulders, crinkling the fabric of her sleeves. Josephine reaches up and cups Lavellan’s face in her palms, and as she lets her mouth open up to let the Inquisitor in, she hears a sharp intake of breath from where Blackwall is standing. 

They break apart, and both turn to look at him. His face is flushed and he leans against the wall, staring at them. “Don’t stop on my account,” he says, vaguely.

“Do you want to come over here?” Josephine asks. He shakes his head.

“If it’s alright with you ladies, I’d, uh… I’d like to just watch for a moment.”

Lavellan grins and enthusiastically slides a hand over the front of Josephine’s dress, the thick, silky material making a shushing noise under her palm. “How many layers does this thing have?” She asks, jokingly petulant. “You’re wrapped up tighter than a birthday present.”

Josephine laughs, and lets the Inquisitor unhook the top button of the dress. The starched collar falls down to reveal her throat, and Lavellan presses a kiss to her clavicle. Josephine shudders at the sensation, her eyes fluttering closed. Still mouthing over the bone, Lavellan makes short work of the rest of the buttons and runs her hands down the thin layer of her slip. She knows it clings to her body flatteringly, and Josephine thanks Andraste that she wore the one without the moth holes in the hem today. She lets the dress fall off her shoulders and feels the warmth of the fire on the bare skin of her arms.

Glancing down, she gently pushes the Inquisitor back an inch. Lavellan frowns, but Josephine reaches for the stays of her tunic. “It’s only fair,” she shrugs, and tugs apart the folds of linen. Her mouth goes dry when she sees that Lavellan’s naked underneath. Oh, Maker, her tits are so cute.

Lavellan smiles, and glances over at Blackwall, still standing. She rolls her eyes. “Oh come on, stop torturing yourself.”

Josephine follows her gaze. Blackwall does look a bit like a man preparing for interrogation - back ramrod straight, holding himself with disciplined trepidation. The only thing to give the situation away is the bulge in his trousers and the pink of his cheeks.

He clears his throat. “May I?”

“You may.”

He takes a halting step forward, then stops. “I really don’t know what to do,” he laments.

Josephine, surprising herself, stands up from the bed and takes him by the hand. “Here,” she says, in a voice more confident than she feels, “follow our lead.”

He sits on the bed heavily, in between the two of them. Josephine catches Lavellan’s eye, and it’s clear they’re thinking the same thing. The other woman wraps her arm around Blackwall’s chest, pulling him back to recline against her. One leg on either side of him, propped up against the headboard, she guides him into position. He sighs and relaxes, his back against her chest.

Josephine steps the rest of the way out of her dress, leaving it on the floor. She’s suddenly self conscious. How long has it been since anyone has seen her like this? She looks down at herself, then back up at the two of them. She feels an ache between her thighs as she sees the way they look at her - hungry, lustful. Lavellan’s mouth is parted, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips, and one hand snaked around and undoing the ties of Blackwall’s pants. His eyes are hooded, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. How long has it been since anyone has  _ looked _ at her like this?

She reaches down and grabs her slip by the hem, pulling it off over her head. 

Lavellan lets out a wolf-whistle and Josephine collapses into giggles. Blackwall, finally looking more at ease, smiles up at her as she kneels on the bed in front of him. “If you two don’t kiss already I’m going to lose my mind,” the Inquisitor says.

Josephine obliges. She captures Blackwall’s lips with hers, and he presses back with barely restrained desire. He tastes of Antivan wine and ginger, and she traces figure-eights on the roof of his mouth when he lets her in. 

Filled with a fervor she hasn’t felt in years, she helps Lavellan’s tricky fingers slip Blackwall’s shirt off and presses herself against his chest. His coarse hair rubs against her skin and she grabs his hands, bringing them to her hips. He grips her reflexively, and when his hips buck up as she sits astride him she can feel how hard he is.

Fingers slides into her hair, and she breaks from Blackwall’s lips with a sharp inhale. Lavellan’s hand cups the back of her head, gently pulling her in for a kiss over Blackwall’s shoulder. Between them, he groans.

“Maker’s ba- I mean, breathe,” he strokes Josephine’s sides as he watches them, craning his neck. 

Lavellan laughs. “I bet the three of us make a pretty picture.” She slides a hand under Blackwall’s loosened waistband, and his eyes shut tight as he grits his teeth. She watches as Josephine’s eyes flit down to watch, a red flush creeping over her dark skin. “Do you want to…?”

Josephine nods. 

Blackwall’s cock, freed from his trousers, curves up towards his belly. Josephine hesitates for a second, then takes it in her mouth. He lets out a hiss, hips tense as he tries not to buck up. Lavellan makes an approving moan. 

Josephine closes her eyes and concentrates on not choking (it’s been a while since she’s done this, and never with someone quite Blackwall’s size). He rests his hand on the back of her head - not commanding, just resting - and pants when she flicks her tongue against his slit. She can feel him shift position, and thinks nothing of it until a pair of hands caresses the insides of her thighs, and a pert little tongue licks a flat stripe against her… well. She squeals and feels Lavellan’s face shake with laughter between her legs. 

“Sorry, sorry,” the Inquisitor giggles. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Who told you to stop?” Blackwall growls, suddenly authoritative. They both turn to stare at him, and he clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “I mean, um- ”

On her knees, Lavellan presses her face, open-mouthed, to Josephine’s wet cunt. She laps at her folds, tongue delving in to make her shudder. Josephine lets out a whine. “Oh, Maker.”

Blackwall’s fingers tangle in her curls, and he gently but firmly guides her back to his cock. She takes him in as deep as she can and wraps a hand around the base. The sweet suction makes him groan and card his blunt nails against her scalp approvingly. Lavellan leaves light scratches as she palms her hips and ass, then slips a delicate elven finger up to rub deliberate circles against Josephine’s swollen clit. Her moans reverberate around Blackwall’s length, and he gasps and pulls her off of him, breathless.

She looks up and he’s staring down at her with glassy eyes. Behind her, Lavellan has paused. “Sorry,” he says, panting. “I just… need a minute.”

As she backs off, letting him catch his breath, Lavellan nips her earlobe playfully and nudges her thigh in between Josephine’s. “He’s close,” she whispers. “He always gets like this when he wants to make it last longer. Needs to use his ‘soldier’s concentration’.”

Josephine feels pleasantly dizzy as she slides against Lavellan’s knee. She stares at Blackwall, who stares at  _ them _ with gritted teeth. His prick twitches.

“Can I fuck him?” Josephine blurts out, and they both sigh with relief. 

“Maker, please,” Blackwall says, as Lavellan bites down on Josephine’s shoulder. 

They readjust, a negotiation that goes smoother now that they’re all on the same page, and Josephine ends up on her back with Blackwall above her. Lavellan lies next to her, one leg hooked over hers, caressing her body and face. Their fingers intertwine and Josephine grips the Inquisitor’s hand tightly as Blackwall enters her. She stifles a moan. 

Lavellan dips her free hand down to stroke where he fills her cunt, stretching her. She watches breathlessly as he pulls out, slowly, and pumps back in. 

“Should I go down on you?” Lavellan asks.

“Only if you want to kill us both,” Josephine gasps. Blackwall’s arms shake as he chuckles. 

“Point taken,” Lavellan grins and goes in for a kiss instead. She moves from Blackwall’s mouth to Josephine’s seamlessly. 

Blackwall fucks into Josephine at a steady pace, and she can feel a wave of pleasure building inside her. Low in the pit of her stomach, with every thrust. “Don’t stop,” she pants. “Harder.” He grunts in acknowledgment and does what she asks. 

It’s been a long time since she’s had an orgams that didn’t involve her own hand, quickly and efficiently getting off to remove distraction from her day. She’s forgotten how different it feels not being alone - shivering and clenching around Blackwall’s cock, her face cupped in Lavellan’s hands and their tongues pressed together. Somehow, he manages to hold off until the wave has washed over her, and he quickly pulls out and comes on Lavellan’s thigh without so much as a tug to help him along. 

The three of them lie in a tangle of limbs, sticky and out-of-breathe on Lavellan’s massive bed. The fire, burning down to embers in the hearth, crackles softly. Lavellan produces a cloth from somewhere and begins to wipe them down.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting this when I woke up this morning,” Josephine says, after a long stretch of silence. 

“Better than paperwork?” Blackwall asks. 

“Significantly.”

Lavellan pulls a blanket around them and snuggles in, wrapping her arm around Josephine’s waist. Blackwall rests his hand on her shoulder - it’s very cozy in between the two of them. Josephine knows she should probably get up and go back to her own chamber ( _ and there’s still letters that need writing, and signatures to be signed, _ whispers a fickle voice in her head), but she can’t quite bring herself to move.

“Is this okay?” Lavellan asks. 

“Mm-hm.” 

“Do you want to stay the night?”

“I probably shouldn’t,” Josephine says, and burrows deeper under the covers. She can feel both of their lips smile - Lavellan’s against her shoulder, Blackwall’s against her forehead.

Not what she was expecting. But certainly a pleasant surprise.


End file.
